


Time

by Francine2869



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:25:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Francine2869/pseuds/Francine2869
Summary: Definition of time11 : a person's experience during a specified period or on a particular occasion





	Time

*~*

* * *

 

# time

[noun](https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/noun) \ ˈtīm \

## Definition of time

11  **:** a person's experience during a specified period or on a particular occasion

  * a good time


  * a hard time



                    - www.merriam-webster.com

* * *

 

Time stretches out before him most days, long and winding hours ticking away until a moment snaps back into his reality. Paperwork ebbs and flows as voices all filter out into a low hum. Some – like Vic's – are pleasant to hear and Robert finds he can listen to what she's saying without wanting to walk away. Some – like Rebecca – seem to grate over the fine hairs on the back of his neck, pulling them tight and strangling him little by little.

The most he feels lately is in what he doesn't feel. The spaces between his fingers when he curls them around empty air, the lack of pressure on his chest that makes him feel like he'll fly apart at any moment... Robert's afraid to lift his head, to breathe too deep in case he simply drifts up and floats away. He works until the words swim in front of his eyes and his hand cramps around a pen. He stares at a screen until it burns and his fingers wont strike the keys anymore. He eats some but mostly moves things around and guzzles coffee over dead tastebuds.

Sometimes (just sometimes) he finds a glimpse of himself in a mirror, in an expression on someone's face. Sometimes its in the feel of his hair styled just right or the cuffs of his sleeves sitting just so. The comforts of old familiarity that faded into the background and were replaced by touch, warmth, physical expressions of love.

Today he pulls at fabric, brushes off imaginary lint, wipes away specks of crumbs. But 20 minutes into his day there's a thread pulling a snag somewhere, one shoe is tighter than the other, his jacket's too hot but his shirt is too cold. He feels like everything's drip, drip, dripping slowly around him even though his caffeine intake has doubled (maybe more than).

Sometimes on his way here or there he wonders how easy it would be to just – not be. If he could slowly fade out like the picture on a television that slowly illuminates into a negative image then turns silently into darkness when you turn it off.

Robert slides through the day intent on a single goal, the pulsing need in his chest pushing him on. He's exhausted most of the time and could easily lay his head down, hoping against hope for a few moments of peace. Luckily (or unluckily, depending how you look at it) Robert can usually keep busy until he has to lay his head down for a few hours.

A few nights of Victoria catching him out with light shining under his door and worrying half the town (or maybe just Diane) with her pinched smiles later, he's learned to listen for her footsteps tracking down the hall at odd times of night to keep an eye on him. So now he lays still and quiet in the darkness, trying to remember to breathe while his mind fills the silence with thought of what was, what could be and what will be. What is, that's not worth thinking about.

In his weakest moments Robert lets himself drift into dreams of _him_ , dreams where he's tucked up under a purple comforter in a mess of arms and legs, scruff and dark hair tucked under his arm and pressed tight against his chest. Warmth spreads through him and those are the nights he hates to wake up from. The mornings when he wakes from hours of sleep that actually give him rest. There's also nights where the sheets tangle around his legs and the bed is too big, too empty and his muscles pull up and tense from cold that he can't get rid of. Those are the nights that leave teeth marks the next day in his short temper and cold (and colder) eyes.

He plays a game with himself to mark each day. When he found himself drifting towards _him_ any chance he could get... it started to impact his plans, weaken his resolve and determination. So now he allows himself three chances a day to catch a glimpse of a stubborn mouth and fierce eyes. Sometimes it's by chance that they cross at the cafe when he's turning down Bob's offer of a smoothie for the third morning in a row, "j _ust the americano please Bob._ " Sometimes it's an evening in the pub when _his_ laughter echoes over voices and conversation, smoothing out the kinks that have settled into his bones.

Some days it's a pull in his chest to the home that he doesn't live in. A few moments to watch him come and go – to imagine life inside those doors. A hoodie thrown over the back of the couch, a bottle of cologne without a top on the dresser upstairs... a bed with purple sheets rumpled on one side and not on the other.

But time stretches out before him most days, long and winding hours ticking away until a moment snaps back into his reality. So allows himself these moments and then walks away, stride unhurried but sure. He stops counting his steps at one hundred each time – 100 paces away from his heart, from warmth and love. So he goes back to work, shuffles papers and types emails while voices fade around him.

 

*~*

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what this is... written quickly this evening after the past few episodes.


End file.
